


Crucify the Angels

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, broken boys in love, drabble-ish, spoilers for episode 2 x 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Isaac can do, and there are things he cannot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crucify the Angels

There are things Isaac can do, and there are things he cannot. He can heal from a shattered bone, from a bullet wound, from a twenty foot fall when Allison shoots an arrow into his hamstring as he's trying to scale the side of a building to get away.

 

He cannot heal the parts of his brain that cause him to flinch any time someone in authority makes too quick a motion, even though he rationally recognizes most of them have no intention of hurting him, and if they did, he's stronger than all but a few of them anyway.

 

He can, despite being a broken boy, in a broken pack, from a broken background, put his hands on a thing writhing in pain, and, for just a minute, take some of that pain into himself. Can use all of the strength and horror and bone-crushing power of the thing he's become to _help_ , rather than hurt. To make physical agony just a bit easier to bear.

 

He cannot, no matter how much he touches him, take away one iota of Stiles' pain, because there's nothing tangible to draw out, nothing material to break apart. Stiles' pain, like Isaac's, is trapped inside the twisting battlefield of his head.

 

He wraps his arms tighter around Stiles, presses his hands against his stomach and chest, and curls closer to him as they lie in the dark of Stiles' room. His fingers are walking the length of Isaac's forearm, deliberately light enough to make him shiver.

 

“Stop!” he laughs, digging his chin into the place where Stiles' shoulder and neck meet and nipping sharply at his earlobe. Stiles hisses and snorts and does it again and again, until Isaac rolls him underneath him and attacks his ribs, making Stiles howl and writhe and try to buck him off, and a tickle war of epic proportions gets underway. Stiles' cheeks are still wet from earlier, and Isaac's eyes are still rubbed red, but neither of them comment, because it's nowhere they haven't been before.

 

Isaac cannot, no matter how much he wishes, do one single thing to excise the pain Stiles hides on a daily basis, any more than he can stitch up his own, but he understands it, and he can share it. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough for them both. 


End file.
